


Bloom

by cherryla



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M, Post-Ketsu, Pregnancy, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 11:52:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryla/pseuds/cherryla
Summary: A baby is born!





	Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> i've lurked in this fandom for a long time. i like shizaya, i like babies.  
> in this verse, their future home is somewhere rural and peaceful.

Their baby comes in the night.

 

Izaya wakes abruptly, belly flooding with twinges of tight pain. He pushes himself up into a sitting position on one arm, the other tender around his middle where his baby reposes heavy and still. He turns cautiously to the side to nudge the shoulder of his slumbering partner for a brief moment, too self-conscious to call out and wincing as the twisted gesture tugs the inside of his sensitive abdomen.

Shizuo lifts his face from its comatose nest in the pillows with bleary, slitted eyes. Annoyance prickling and ready to question the ravens not unusual midnight jeering, he wipes sleep from his vision with a rough palm and turns to chastise his beloved with instinctively kindled irritation ready on his tongue.

His biting retort is swallowed by surprise; vision sinks into focus against the dark and reveals Izaya knelt back on his calves, slightly curled over with fists gripping white-knuckle into the comforter between his knees. His breathing comes in hushed shudders, as though soft panting is the farthest he'll dare to allow his expression of pain to manifest.

_“Izaya?”_ Murmurs the blonde. He fumbles up from his sprawl on the futon to kneel alongside his former rival. He reaches to collect a tense hand in his grasp as a particularly vicious cramp seems to surge through the raven. The informant clutches his partners hand with vice strength that Shizuo might warrant could give him a taste of his own iron-strength medicine were his bones not already so accustomed to fracture and rearrangement. 

Eyes screwed shut and appearing unable to invest in any kind of coherent response, Izaya tries to catch his breath after the conspicuous efforts to keep it composed give way. His equanimity fissures and a string of indignant whimpers tumbles from his throat. The blonde reels for a moment, so unaccustomed to such a vulnerable display of his partner appearing so anxious and raw with pain. He’s not used to this at all; he knows mockery, knows playful bitterness and insecurity veiled by apathy and ennui. He feels ridiculous to think it, but it occurs to him that, even now, he does not know this Izaya, and he does not know what to do. 

He is almost certain he knows what is happening, but can’t stop himself from asking anyway--maybe for himself, maybe for the both of them. Perhaps he merely lulls voice to the room as a means of keeping himself tethered to reality. 

_“Where does it hurt? ...Is this...Is this it...?”_

Met with gasping silence, he rubs the brunette's back and resigns himself to the role of being a personal pin cushion to meticulously maintained nails.

 

They’d discussed this before, always approaching the conversational facets of childbirth with their respectively limiting personal affectations. Izaya, to Shizuo’s lack of understanding, would turn his nose up at the proposition of anesthetics and practical intervention--something about disliking the way drugs “messed with his brain,” though Shizuo could credit himself for reading someway through to the paranoia and mistrust that would lace the raven’s shirking pretenses as he’d hold his arms snug around his growing baby bump.

He wishes now, feeling so limited with an artillery of only touch and word to offer clumsy consolation to his partner, watching Izaya swallow cries of pain with insurmountable obstinance, that he’d put his foot down and confronted the brunette’s inhibitions before allowing them to dominate even a milestone so private and intimate in their relationship as this.

 

The shoji doors of their home are open, filled with the satin blue of twilight that beckons fresh summer air into the house.

Izaya rests his face on his arms folded over the wood of their kotatsu and trembles with breath. The skittish raven twitches when an obscenely warm palm returns against the tense of his upper back, an imposing reminder on his sour mood that he gets to have a little audience in this embarrassing circus act of vulnerability and clinical disgust. He wants badly to seize the comfort that offers itself in the unwavering presence of his partner, but years of self-loathing vitriol are tugging at his conscience, reminding him that to need such is to embody feebleness, that the blonde's acts of attention are a falsity strung together by convictional pity and guilt for the past.

His shoulders shake with the pressure of a sob coiling in his chest. The blonde must notice, because within a moment he accosts the presumed rumination of instinctual self-punishment with a thought that leaves his own chest fluttering warm.

Izaya, face tucked to the cotton of his sleeve, feels broad fingers thread between his own over the tabletop.

_“We get to meet her,”_ Shizuo blurts softly, voice incredulous and warm like honey.

The raven can’t help it--he snivels, body wracked with piercing pain, thinking of his baby, thinking of his longtime object of yearning and desperation so close to him now, holding him gingerly as they wait in welcome for the fruit of their mended bond. 

 

She arrives by dawn, pudgy and perfect. Her face is Izaya’s, but the soft crown of chocolate curls and liquid gold eyes cradled in the frame of her delicate features are all Shizuo.


End file.
